Umbrella
by Bookjunk
Summary: A series of unconnected one-shots collected under one umbrella. Pretty much all of them about Dean and Castiel's profound bond. Canon, crossover and AU. Humour and tragedy. Friendship and romance.
1. For sentimental reasons

_Canon. Takes place between 7.02 and 7.17. _

**For sentimental reasons**

It was dark. It was always dark lately. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling moved a little in the draft. Its light cast eerie shadows on the walls.

Dean was tired. Bone tired. The sort of tired he imagined you'd feel at the end of a long life, when your last breath came as a relief. The sound of running water didn't help. It made him drowsy. He should probably shower and brush his teeth too, but he didn't think he could stay awake.

The bed looked clean enough, so he lay down. He didn't even bother to take his jacket off. It was summer, but the weather refused to correspond to the season. Courtesy of the draft, it was even colder. Dean tried to recall the last time he'd felt warm. That was a while ago.

He reached for his duffel bag and dug around. The door of the bathroom opened. Dean wanted to comment on the long shower, but he thought better of it when he saw his brother's face. Sam was staring at the contents of the bag, with a mutinous expression. It was a familiar look.

Quickly, Dean closed the bag, but it was too late.

'I don't want to carry it,' Sam opened. His tone was argumentative. Nowadays, Dean alternated between worrying about his brother and wanting to kill him. He rather preferred the former. Ah, remember the days when all you did was worry about Sam? Good times. Just agree, he decided.

'Then don't. I'll carry it. I always carry it anyway,' he said.

'Yeah,' Sam responded, sounding ever so contemptuous. Fuck him. Dean usually did pretty much anything to avoid a confrontation, but he couldn't help himself. He reacted, sharply.

'What?'

Sam glanced at him and looked away.

'Nothing,' he mumbled.

Okay. Dean felt stupidly relieved for a second. That was it: no fight. Sam then proceeded to try and break everything he touched. He almost tore apart his own bag in an attempt to find something. Looked into the drawer of the night stand, banged it shut when he saw that it contained a Bible. He practically demolished the bed when he threw himself down on it. Dramatic much? After counting to ten, Dean sat up. He closed his eyes and opened them again.

'Obviously, something's up.' Up your ass. Dean was trying really hard to remain calm and only barely succeeding. Sam jumped up from his bed. He was not responding well to reason. In fact, it seemed to piss him off.

'It's nothing,' Sam snapped. He started to pace and continued in a similar vein, 'Go on and carry it. Carry it all you want. For the both of us. You're very good at carrying it.'

There was definitely a fight coming on. Too bad that Dean was kind of losing the thread of their late night battle. He had thought that he knew what they were talking about, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

'The coat?' he asked. His hesitation and confusion infuriated his brother.

'Yeah, the coat,' Sam spit out. They were clearly not talking about the coat. Or they were; in a metaphoric, symbolism sort of way that Dean didn't understand. Dean did nothing. He simply wasn't going to say anything. You couldn't argue if one person refused to participate.

'You're being a douche,' Sam then stated. Come on, Dean thought. He snorted as loudly as possible.

'Oh, _I'm_ being a douche.'

'Yeah.'

This whole serenity thing wasn't working. His hands were beginning to twitch. He gritted his teeth and tried to control his anger. If Sam said 'yeah' one more time, he might just strangle him. And only regret it a little bit afterwards.

'It would be nice if you told me what we're fighting about.'

Good. That was good. Civil. Reasonable. So what if it pissed Sam off?

'About the coat,' Sam repeated. Sam acted weird around the coat, weird about the coat. Dean knew that. When Sam had exited the bathroom, he had glimpsed it in Dean's bag. That was what had set him off. But why?

'Why?' Dean carefully asked. He was rewarded with a massive eye roll.

'Because it belonged to Castiel.'

Scarcely allowing himself time to think or feel something upon hearing that name, Dean countered, 'So?'

'Why do you have to carry it around?'

'Beats me.'

They glared at each other. Suddenly, Sam approached the bag. Kneeled down before it. Dean felt something akin to panic when his brother opened it.

'Take your hands off,' Dean warned. Sam stopped and looked at him.

'Or what?'

In one smooth move, he got to his feet. He snatched the bag from Sam and shoved it under the bed. Clenched his fists in an epic effort to restrain himself. He was _this_ close to violence.

'Dammit, Sam. I'm keeping it, okay! Why don't you leave me the fuck alone?'

His voice was unsteady. He was already starting to feel bad for yelling at Sam. This was par for the course. Lately, whatever he did, he felt bad.

Sometimes Dean thought that Sam picked fights to distract himself or keep himself together or something. Maybe he was even doing it for Dean too. To give both of them something to do to take their minds off of it. Half heartedly, Dean made a dismissive 'forget about it' hand gesture and sat back down on the bed.

'You loved him,' his brother exclaimed. As if it had just occurred to him.

'Yeah, I did.'

'You're not denying it,' Sam noted, surprised.

'It is what it is,' Dean said and added, 'I'm really tired.'

Sam nodded. Dean stretched out on the bed and watched as his brother turned off the light. In the dark, Sam shuffled to his own bed. They got under the covers. The motel wasn't entirely silent. The ice machine in the hallway made a humming noise.

'Dean, I don't think he's coming back.'

Still feeling cold, Dean rolled onto his other side, facing the wall. His arm dangled over the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of the bag.

He pulled the bag a little closer and slipped his hand inside. Quietly, he felt around for the coat. This was okay. It wasn't as if he was using it as a pillow or wearing it. He was just... touching it.

'I know,' he whispered. Having the coat nearby made him feel better somehow. Warmer. Dean _wanted_ to carry it. He closed his eyes.

The end.


	2. Oh well, I'll never learn

_Canon-ish. Post-season 7. Not my best work. Seriously, skip it._

**Oh well, I'll never learn**

You know how on TV and in movies when people are wounded there's usually someone around to comment on the amount of blood? Like 'I never knew there would be so much blood' or some such shit. Well, Dean had grown up on a steady diet of blood. He had dealt with more than his fair share of wounded people and had some personal experience with dying and blah blah blah.

That made it even more massively stupid when the first thing that came to his mind when Castiel got shot was; that's a lot of blood. Yeah, it was. It was gushing through his fingers. Not that he was freaked out by it. It was almost boring by now. Been there, done that.

But you couldn't think like that, because every time could be the last time, so he pressed his hands tighter to the wound and ignored Castiel's protests. It kept coming, like water. It was really alarmingly thin. Maybe he needed to take Castiel to a doctor after this. You had blood thinners; surely there would also be whatever the opposite is.

The whole thing felt off, because it was broad daylight and everyone was just walking around them. It was beyond strange. People were assholes, Dean knew that, but this was a bit much. Someone gets shot on the street during the day and every single person coming at them reacted to the sight of a bloodied Castiel by sidestepping them. That wasn't normal.

Dean was feeling kind of weird too. It would be super sweet if this meant that he was having a nightmare. He could definitely get behind that. Come to think of it, there was that typical disjointed quality to the situation. As if the facts of reality kept changing on him.

Just seconds ago he had been somewhere else. He was sure of it. He was less sure about whether the other place had been better than where he was now. You'd say it almost had to be, but that wasn't exactly how Dean's life worked.

The concrete under his chafed knees felt real, though. Castiel's blood was pretty realistic too. A little thin, yeah, but Castiel probably just wasn't eating right. It smelled like blood. Some other liquid was starting to spill out now. Dean didn't turn his face away. One of the many perks of getting shot in the stomach was the nice exposure to; let's call it, _digested food_. This was getting gross and dire.

So, instead of banking on this being a dream, maybe Dean needed to get a little more pro-active. Otherwise Castiel would probably bleed out. And that would suck.

Also majorly sucking? They were in a hospital now. Dean would gladly have chalked this up to a time machine or time loop or something epically screwing with his time, except for the fact that Castiel's head was bandaged. Annoyed, he sighed. Either there was something seriously wrong with him or the continuity in this dream was about as impressive as the continuity on the average soap opera.

On cue, Castiel opened his eyes and spoke.

'Who are you? Who am I?'

'Oh Christ,' Dean muttered, disgusted. If given the choice, he vastly preferred switched babies or falsified paternity tests over amnesia, thank you very much.

'Don't go The Notebook on me. You know I hate that,' Dean tried. Jokes were always good in these kinds of situations. Secretly, he was also hoping that his brain might switch to a sitcommier scenario. Something a lot lighter and more fun. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No such luck. Still the same room. Just Castiel and him and some depressingly practical furniture.

'I don't know what that means,' Castiel admitted. He was starting to look scared now, which tugged on Dean's rusty heart strings. The easiest thing to do would be to leave the hospital room, find the roof and jump off it. That would wake him up. Something made him decide not to. Might have been that he wasn't 100 % sure that this was a dream. Might have been Castiel's pleading blue eyes.

'Wish I could forget that movie,' Sam piped up, almost giving Dean a heart attack in the process. Dean whipped around to find his brother occupying a chair to his left. Sam chuckled at his start.

'Where the hell did you come from?'

'I was sitting here the entire time,' Sam explained. From abdominal wound to head wound, from street to hospital, from just the two of them to Sam suddenly also being there: this was all following classic dream logic.

'Do you know how rare amnesia is?' Sam asked. Castiel's head shot up and he moaned in pain. Quickly, Dean got up from his chair to help ease Castiel back down. This was not cool. Maybe Sam could stay with Castiel, while he put an end to this bullshit. This Sam didn't seem like the caring type, though. Also, if this was a dream, what's to say Sam wouldn't vanish the moment Dean walked out of the room? Then Castiel would be alone.

'No, _Sam_, I don't know.'

'Me neither, but I'm betting it's pretty rare.'

Sam nodded his head all wisely and Dean glared at him. This Sam seemed more and more like a hyper-exaggerated version of someone Dean hated. Time to leave, before he did something he would regret, like kill fake Sam. Dean made the mistake of glancing again at Castiel, who was looking pretty confused – pretty and pretty confused and pretty when confused – and sure enough, he couldn't leave after that.

'Ignore him,' Dean said loudly. A little too loudly perhaps, because everything was suddenly very quiet around him. And he was now in a forest. This was familiar. Despite the shadows moving about and the eerie feeling and the hazy quality of his surroundings, Dean instantly knew that he wasn't dreaming or whatever anymore. Still, he curled his fingers into a fist and punched the nearest tree.

Now his hand hurt. He had closed his eyes and was reluctant to open them. So, he applied the ripping off a band aid principle. No peeking through his lashes. Just bam! Open. And wouldn't you know it...

Nope, still in Purgatory.

'Son of a bitch.'

The end.


	3. Peppermint Patty

_Crossover. Season 5._

**Peppermint Patty**

'FBI. I'm agent Page and this is my partner agent Plant. We need to borrow your store for about twenty minutes.'

Howard tried to make eye contact with a couple of the other customers, but none of them seemed to have noticed the flashing of the badges. He almost turned around to nudge his friend, but thought better of it. Instead, he observed the Feds. Feds!

Upon seeing the store owner's concerned expression, the tall agent - whose name Howard had already forgotten – told him not to worry. They weren't going to break anything.

(***)

After Stuart had retired to the back, the not-so-tall agent stepped behind the counter.

'Can I help you? Are you looking for a particular comic book?' he asked the third guy. Howard decided that from here on out the not-so-tall agent would be known as Chiselled and the second agent as Giant. And the other guy was hereby dubbed Trench Coat. They hadn't introduced him, so Howard didn't know what he was. Another FBI agent? A prisoner?

Inconspicuously, Howard tried to inch a little closer. This was one of the most exciting things to ever happen to him and he wanted to be able to accurately report everything. Trench Coat frowned.

'Aren't you supposed to call them graphic novels?' Trench Coat inquired.

'Nah, kinda pretentious,' Chiselled said and smirked. It was at this point that Howard began to regret that he had brought Sheldon. This invariably happened. As expected, Sheldon honed in on the offender and approached Chiselled.

'Excuse me. I don't know who you are, but that is not...'

'We're with the FBI.'

Both Giant and Chiselled nonchalantly showed their badges to Sheldon. That effectively shut him up. It was awesome. Howard needed to get his hands on one of those badges. Apparently, they were magical.

'We're in the middle of an important investigation here,' Chiselled informed a stunned Sheldon.

'I apologise, sir. I was under the impression that you were a philistine who has no business dealing with art,' Sheldon haughtily responded. Chiselled looked him up and down. He exchanged a look with Giant. It was clear that Chiselled was trying hard not to laugh in Sheldon's face and only barely succeeding.

'Dude, give it a rest. I don't work here,' Chiselled eventually said, before turning his back on Sheldon. Sheldon opened his mouth to object - which wouldn't be entirely unfounded since Chiselled was certainly _acting _like he was an employee of the Comic Center - but he was ignored.

'Alright. What's your favourite comic book character?'

Trench Coat took his time thinking about the question, while Howard tried to figure out what was happening. So far, whatever they were doing didn't seem very FBI-y. It was an interrogation of sorts, but about... character preferences?

'I don't... Does Peppermint Patty count?' Trench Coat inquired. He sounded unsure. Not that Howard had a lot of time to notice, because he was too busy dragging an appalled Sheldon away. When he could focus on the conversation again, Chiselled was giving Trench Coat a long, weird look.

'No? I'm sorry,' Trench Coat mumbled. Howard was close enough now to see his blue eyes awkwardly searching the store for something else to offer. Chiselled took pity on him and patted his arm.

'Hey, the chick behind her in class called her sir. I always thought that was pretty cool,' Chiselled admitted. Thankful, Trench Coat smiled at Chiselled, who smiled back encouragingly.

'But that is not what you are looking for, right?' Chiselled prodded and Trench Coat snapped to attention. He straightened up and for a second Howard thought he was looking at one of Penny's awful auditions, because the guy spoke as if he was reciting a script.

'I want to get something for my girlfriend and all I know is that she likes...'

Embarrassed, Trench Coat hesitated. He has forgotten his line, Howard thought. Immediately, he realised how ridiculous that thought was, until Chiselled stage whispered, 'Batman. Keep going.'

'Yes, thank you,' Trench Coat quickly said. 'Batman. My girlfriend likes Batman.'

Chiselled and Trench Coat stared at each other for an uncomfortable period of time. Somehow, Howard didn't think Trench Coat had a girlfriend at all. Chiselled was the first to break eye contact. He sighed demonstratively.

'This is not going to work. I literally know nothing about this sort of shit.'

'Sir?' Trench Coat murmured. Obviously, he was still in character, but Chiselled eyed him suspiciously. He pointed an accusing finger at Trench Coat and directed his complaint towards Giant.

'Did you see what he did there?'

'I think he was doing fine. A little nervous, but otherwise fine,' Giant remarked. During the entire conversation, Giant had been looking bored and tired.

'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' Chiselled agreed. 'That was fine, but I'm talking about the flirting. He always ends up doing that.'

Yawning, Giant stretched. He looked amused, but responded dismissively.

'He doesn't even know what flirting is. Also, if you think that calling someone 'sir' is flirting, you really need to get out more. Was that other guy hitting on you too?'

Trench Coat shuffled with his feet, while Chiselled glared at Giant. Giant didn't appear bothered.

'That was an idiot. Look, I'm just trying to help him act more human,' Chiselled protested.

'Yeah, and if Castiel ever has to buy a Batman comic for his girlfriend, I guess he'll know how to do that. Seriously, what _are_ we doing here?' Giant asked. Chiselled didn't like the criticism and glared again. At a complete loss now, Howard watched as Giant threw up his hands in defeat and seemingly surrendered.

'I don't see how any of this is useful, but okay,' Giant said. After a second, he added, whispering, yet perfectly audible, 'Especially since you're the only one he flirts with.'

Annoyed, Chiselled huffed. He opened his mouth – to address how Giant had contradicted his own earlier statement, Howard assumed – but closed it again without speaking.

'Let's just get out of here,' Chiselled eventually suggested. Looking extremely satisfied with himself, Giant exited the store, leaving Chiselled and Trench Coat behind. For an awkward moment, neither of them moved. Under his breath, Chiselled, attempting to sound disgruntled, mumbled something. His words brought a faint smile to Trench Coat's lips. Howard could have sworn Chiselled had said '_I_ like Peppermint Patty.'

(***)

'Did you see that guy? With the cheekbones and the eyes? Good thing we decided not to take Penny,' Howard told Sheldon. For some reason, he also appreciated that Leonard had sneezed in the general direction of Raj, which had resulted in both of them not being able to come. He couldn't really figure out why he was glad that Raj was not there, though.

'Penny didn't want to come,' Sheldon responded, without looking up. Stuart peeked out from the back and noticing that the agent were no longer in the store, he hesitantly approached them.

'They're gone? What did they do?' Stuart asked. Finding it hard to explain, Howard turned to Sheldon, who briefly halted his examination of the newest issues.

'One of the men pretended to assist the other man with a purchase. It was odd. I doubt they were with the FBI,' he concluded. Ultimately uninterested, Sheldon returned to more important matters. After a few seconds, Howard shrugged and did the same. It was Wednesday, after all.

The end.


	4. Prayin'

_AU_

**Prayin'**

Dean pressed the steel against the pale skin of his inner arm and covered it with his sleeve. Slowly, he crossed the yard. He hated being out there. It was too exposed; he was too vulnerable.

In his empty cell, he tested the improvised weapon on his mattress. It was tiny but sharp. This was crazy. Was he really going to do this?

He cast a glance up at the drab ceiling and chuckled.

'You wanna help me?'

_he came for me just like I knew he would_

Footsteps behind him. Movement out of the corner of his eye. They were approaching.

The hallway was empty. No guards. Dean was presenting them with the perfect opportunity. It wasn't the smart thing to do. But he couldn't hide forever. Sooner or later they were going to get him. Better if it was on his own terms. The coldness in his hand was comforting.

He faced the wall. Didn't matter why he had his back to them. There was no need to pretend to be doing anything. It would be enough if they thought for one second that they could surprise him or that he wasn't paying attention. It would mean that he'd get at least one of them.

Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. Dean didn't think about it. Seemed silly to. He turned and stabbed.

Warm blood spurted over his fingers. He had been prepared for that. Well, theoretically. As it turned out, he hadn't been prepared for the sensation. His hands were so slippery that he dropped the makeshift knife, which – damn – was just stupid. Now he was dead.

Dean found himself waiting for some sort of sign.

_when this angel appeared_

_with the devil in his eyes but God in his heart_

The electricity decided to quit and the doorway darkened for a moment. Someone slipped into the room. Not a guard, because then the alarm would have been raised immediately. Instead, he came in quietly. The others weren't aware of his presence. Maybe he was with them.

They didn't appear to have brought weapons. But there were two – three? – of them and there was only one of him. The first one collapsed, clutching his stomach. Dean backed away from him. The second one stooped to pick up something. The blade glinted in the sparse light.

To get killed with your own shiv. That probably wasn't ironic, but it was something. The guy came at him. The body on the recently scrubbed tiles had stopped twitching. Dean didn't want to see the man he had killed or the man who was about to kill him, so he glanced at the only other man in the room.

Their eyes locked. Or Dean thought so; it was too dark to tell. The shock he felt when the lights flickered and he saw that those blue eyes were indeed fixed on him was fierce. It was like a jolt of recognition. The newcomer looked unsettled too.

Without Dean's smirking assailant noticing, the new guy advanced upon him. They briefly wrestled for the weapon, while Dean stood by. It clattered to the floor. New guy got to it first. It happened so fast that Dean never actually saw it go down.

_so there we are_

_an angel and a man_

_both just standing there_

_with blood on our hands_

Dean stared at the dark pools that were forming on the tiles. The liquid was seeking the easiest path, seeping into the cracks. Frightened, he glanced at the man next to him.

'Go,' the man growled. It was the first time Dean heard his voice and it startled him. He couldn't stop looking at the bodies. He couldn't believe he had done this. He had killed a man. The man grabbed him by the throat.

'I said go,' he ordered. He pushed Dean away. Dean still didn't move. His hands were trembling. Apparently, the time to freak out had come. The man sighed.

'What have you got?' he gently inquired. Dean looked up. He didn't understand the question.

'I don't...'

'How long?'

'Five,' Dean said. 'Five years.'

'I've got life.'

Dean wanted to ask what the man had done to deserve the sentence, but was afraid of the answer, so kept quiet. It was clear what the man meant.

'Wait. Wash your hands first.'

Under the man's steady gaze, Dean cleaned the blood off. His eyes kept wandering to the bodies. Jail had finally managed to turn him into a criminal. Ashamed, he faced his savior. Dean wanted to say a lot of things. Like 'I'm sorry' and 'You don't have to do this' and 'Thanks.' He ended up saying nothing.

'Go,' the man repeated.

And Dean, Lord help him, went.

The end.

(***)

Inspired by the song _Prayin'_ by Plan B. The featured lyrics are his.


	5. Fifteen minutes

_AU_

**Fifteen minutes**

The lights were blinding him. He couldn't see who was in front of the podium, but maybe that was the point. Oh God, what if there were perverts? What if perverts would bid on him? Not that anyone was bidding yet. Something even more horrible occurred to him: what if no one would want him? That would be just his luck.

After all, it wasn't as if he was famous or anything. The TV show he was on was critically acclaimed, which as far as Castiel could tell was code for no one except critics watches it. The show was good, though, and he was a decent actor. He thought he was anyway. Why else would people who made a good show hire him to be on it?

Nervously, Castiel tried to loosen his collar, but he had tied his tie too tight. Tied his tie too tight; try saying that three times fast.

'Alright,' he whispered to himself. This earned him a concerned glance from the auction guy. Auctionist? Castiel didn't know. He tried out a smile, but that got him another worried expression from the... auctioneer? Auctions were not events that Castiel had ever been interested in, especially not faux-celebrity auctions.

The only reason he had agreed to go was because the few friends he had were always telling him that he needed to get out more. They had also heavily stressed the fact that it was for a charity. So, eventually he had relented, because who could refuse doing something for dog shelters?

When the auction guy introduced Castiel, he mispronounced his name – because; why not? Bidding started at a thousand dollars. A long silence followed. Castiel kept on smiling until he remembered that the character he played on the show rarely smiled, so maybe that was what they were expecting. Quickly, he dropped the smile. After what seemed about a million years, someone finally placed a bid.

Higher and higher amounts were rattled off in that rapid fire manner that Castiel had used to find charming the few times he had seen it done in a movie. It was decidedly less amusing when he was the item being sold. Plus, he was beginning to feel increasingly more uncomfortable under the lights. Why had he agreed to do this again? Enough with the questions, he thought, you're freaking yourself out.

It was difficult to follow what was going on. The lights were getting warmer by the second. Castiel tried hard not to brush his sleeve across his forehead, because who was going to bid on a sweat-drenched actor from a HBO show no one watched?

And just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Relieved, Castiel left the podium. Alright, he was absolutely not going to subject himself to that ever again. An excited woman led him backstage. For a brief moment, he thought that she was the one who had bought him, until she told him that his sale was the highest of the night. Castiel was sure that he had heard that wrong. A cruise to the Bahamas and a brand new car had already been sold. Surely, the dubious pleasure of spending the evening with him was not worth more than either of those. The woman ushered him into the arms of a waiting man and disappeared.

'Dean Winchester. Hi,' the man introduced himself.

Castiel instantly forgot the man's name. It was what happened when he was nervous. He either forgot the other person's name or he forgot his own name, which usually resulted in him parroting the person's name back at them. Focussing, he managed to remember and say his own name this time, while shaking the man's hand.

His hands were still sweaty. He apologised and wiped his hands on his jeans. Expecting the man to take him to the person who had bought him, Castiel looked around. The thought of spending the evening with someone he had never met was incredibly unnerving and off putting.

'How much did I go for?' he quietly asked, while studying his shoes.

'25 grand,' the man answered.

'What?'

'Because you're worth it, am I right?' the man said. Castiel frowned at him. It sounded like a joke, but he wasn't sure whether it came at his expense or not. He didn't understand it. Pop culture wasn't his forte.

'Look, there was a woman who clearly wanted to have your babies and another one who talked for half an hour about her dog. Not a talking dog or a dog that could predict the future or something. Just a regular dog. For _thirty_ minutes. So, the way I see it, I probably saved you from a creepy and/or boring evening.'

People skills would come in handy here, Castiel thought. Unfortunately, he possessed none. What's his name, what's his name? Frantic thinking didn't provide the answer.

'Hi, I'm Dean Winchester. I'm the guy who bought you. And don't worry: you don't have to spend the evening with me. In fact, you can't,' Dean slowly explained. They shook hands again. Castiel wondered why he hadn't noticed the first time how comforting Dean's fingers felt wrapped around his own.

'Why not?' Castiel inquired. It was just the nerves talking. Yes, that was why he had blurted out that inane question.

'I mean, you certainly sound like a better companion that those two ladies,' he quickly amended.

'Yeah, I'm pretty sure I technically can't have your babies and I don't have a dog, so on those counts we're good. But I have to go do something for Sam.'

Dean winked at him and Castiel could feel something flutter in his stomach. This wasn't going to end well. He was already terrible, horrible, no good, very bad in social situations, but that flutter spelled disaster. His mouth was dry and he swallowed.

'Who's Sam?'

'He's my brother. Do you have a brother?' Castiel shook his head. 'It's basically the same as having a dog.'

That was definitely a joke. Castiel couldn't laugh, however, because he was staring into Dean's eyes. They were very... Well, they were _very_. Everything about Dean was very. Not too much; just right.

'You are ridiculously handsome, do you know that?'

Horrified, Castiel realised that this was not something that he should have said. It was not something that normal people said. Especially not to a virtual stranger. He flushed bright red and studied his shoes as he attempted to apologise his way out of the mess he had created.

'Oh God, I'm sorry. Yes, you are very handsome, but I shouldn't have said that. I don't know why I did,' Castiel mumbled. After a short pause, he added, 'I don't get out much,' as if that was some sort of excuse. When he finally dared to look up, he saw that Dean was smiling.

'You're cute. There. That's at least as embarrassing as what you said. Also...' Dean said, punctuating the sentence by kissing Castiel.

Worried that his lack of experience would show if he did anything, Castiel did nothing as Dean's mouth brushed against his. He stood perfectly still as Dean tilted his head and applied more pressure. Dean teased him by sliding his tongue between Castiel's wet lips and still Castiel didn't move. It wasn't until Dean moaned against his throat that Castiel reciprocated.

He wasn't clear on what exactly he was doing; merely that Dean seemed to like it. His hot moans attested to that. They spend a few more breathless moments exploring each other's mouths, until one of them found the sense to pull away. It wasn't Castiel. He didn't feel very sensible right then.

'I want to go out with you,' Castiel announced. His tie had somehow come undone and he didn't care at all. Suddenly feeling shy anew, Castiel's gaze began its journey down to his shoes. Another kiss stopped him. Then Dean reached out and attempted to redo Castiel's tie without much success. Smirking, he gave up.

'Whoa, I really reverse psychology'd you into that one, didn't I?'

The end.


	6. I'll change your mind

_Canon_

**I'll change your mind**

_You call my number_

_You call me just because you can_

'_Cause you know I'll come_

'_Cause you know I'm helpless_

It started long before Purgatory. Dean would call Castiel and Castiel would arrive to find him alone. That was the one thing that remained the same: Sam wasn't there.

The first time had been confusing. Dean didn't need his help, didn't need information or anything else. It baffled Castiel.

'Why did you call me?' he remembered asking. Dean had this mocking smirk on his face that wasn't very illuminating. Was it a joke? A time-consuming and not particularly funny ongoing joke?

Side by side, they watched TV. They went to a bar together. They talked about various unimportant subjects. Sports. The weather. Music. Dean mostly did the talking.

Sometimes Dean sat really close. Knees touching. Fingers brushing over Castiel's wrist. And always that smirk. As if Dean possessed some quite valuable knowledge that kept eluding Castiel.

It was a shock when Dean had said it, though Castiel realised afterwards that all their time together had been building towards that moment.

'I love you.'

The hunter had looked tense. Castiel had smiled, because it seemed like the thing to do. That appeared to be the correct approach. Dean had relaxed and patted his shoulder.

'Just so you know,' he'd added.

_More and more lately_

_You get lonely_

_You're no stranger_

_To 3 A.M._

That was enough for some time, until it suddenly wasn't.

Dean had been having trouble sleeping. They'd take an extra room, so at least Sam could get some rest. Castiel would sit on the bed. Dean would pace.

He made wide, restless turns in the middle of the room. The angel watched. The smirk was still there, but it was different. It was a watered down version of the original one. Less amused and more frustrated.

'I'll change your mind.'

Change his mind how? Castiel didn't know, didn't dare to ask and Dean didn't volunteer the answer. Later, far away from Dean, Castiel worked it out. But Dean didn't mention it again and Castiel assumed that it had passed.

Purgatory proved him wrong.

_Maybe this will be the time I change your mind_

You couldn't trust your senses, because – Castiel explained to Dean – objects were closer than they appeared. Dean laughed. It was a tough, throaty chuckle. Bitterness and fear covered up by bravura. Part of it false; part of it genuine.

'Like in a car mirror.'

Castiel nodded. He could see that Dean was thinking of the Impala. He could also see that Dean was tired. It was dark and cold. None of this bothered Castiel, but it obviously bothered Dean.

'Do you want to sleep?'

The oldest Winchester looked at him as if he was insane. Accustomed to the look by now, Castiel didn't react.

'Here?' Dean asked. The angel nodded a second time. Purgatory was full of dangers, but he could protect Dean. That was within his powers. The opportunity to escape would present itself in due time. Dean would probably figure something out. Something permanent and smart that felt less like being ripped apart than when Castiel had made an attempt to leave.

'It's too cold.'

Castiel took off his trench coat and handed it to Dean. It looked weird on Dean. Out of place. Dean shivered.

'Yeah, that's not gonna work,' he said.

That was how Dean ended up sleeping in Castiel's arms, for the first night of many.

_And now you're using me_

_For comfort and company_

_I use you too _

_To feed my fantasy_

There was a rhythm to their stay in Purgatory. Days and nights without the difference of light and dark. Castiel missed the sun.

They talked a lot. Dean hummed Metallica and tried to teach him the lyrics to 'Ramble On.' Less and less time was spend on trying to find a way to escape, even though the souls continued to attack them.

On the eighteenth night, Dean surprised Castiel by turning to him before going to sleep.

'Maybe this will be the night I change your mind.'

It took Castiel a while to reach back through time and find the moment Dean referred to. Plus, the moment before that. The 'I love you.' He didn't know why Dean thought that his mind needed changing. He already loved Dean. It was a curious feeling. With pointy edges and a fuzzy middle.

There was a vacuum before the feeling had sunk its claws into him. A sort of wasteland of mistakenly believing that he understood feelings. Pain, for example. Castiel had hurt his wings many times. Being God's soldier did that. So, he had thought that he knew pain.

Scrape, cut, bruise. Sharp, dull, lingering. None of them compared to emotional pain. Those pains had the tendency to invade every limb, while they really affected nothing. They healed so very slowly. They carried another feeling with them: the nonsensical thought that you would never stop hurting.

Love was a lot like that. Castiel found it extremely difficult to remember that empty time before love. Similarly, when he thought about this love leaving him, he came up blank. He couldn't manage, didn't posses the imagination necessary to pull off the thought. It stayed abstract.

On the eighteenth night, Castiel surprised Dean by giving in. It felt like the right thing to do.

_Let you take what you need_

_And I will take what I can get_

_Which isn't very much_

_A little human heat_

_A little human touch_

They kissed. It hardly felt real. Dean's hands on him. So many moments that he had let pass, knowing full well that he couldn't resist Dean forever, and now it was happening.

Dean was quick. Hungry, but careful. Their clothes removed and forgotten. The cold and the darkness were pushed to the back of their minds. Evil surrounded them, but it couldn't touch them.

It felt different than Castiel had expected. A mixture of disbelief and an ache that would remain unfulfilled for the rest of his days. Somehow he had expected the ache to go away, but in the midst of it – Dean rocking into him – Castiel grasped that even this wasn't enough. It would never be enough. That ache would always be with him.

He shuddered and Dean did too. Not because he was cold or because he was scared, but because they were two again. For the briefest moment, they had been one, but they couldn't remain that way. Hence, the ache.

_It's like being in hell_

They did that a lot after that first time. Sex, love: Castiel couldn't really tell the difference. Sometimes they managed to do it six times in what passed for a day in Purgatory. Dean clearly needed it, so Castiel gave.

Kisses, caresses, those exquisite moments as one of them entered the other one's body, fingers wet and warm, pulsing heat: Castiel gave it all. He wondered whether Dean also felt the disappointment of not giving enough and not receiving enough, though both gave everything.

It was a math problem. Crossing half the distance between them for eternity and never getting there. They could not be as close as either of them wanted and the ache burned in its intensity. It hurt like no other pain before it.

_I fall for you over and over and over and over and over_

_And over and over_

_And over again_

Here was all Castiel had ever wanted: Dean's love. But it couldn't be held. Every moment he had it was also the moment when he knew that it was gone.

The end.

(***)

The wonderful lyrics are from the song _I'll change your mind_ by Kate Miller-Heidke.


	7. South Tacoma Way

_Canon_

**South Tacoma Way**

It was a town that felt more like a village. It rained the entire time they were there. Really gushed down. You couldn't step outside without getting soaked. Sam estimated he ruined at least three pairs of shoes in Tacoma, Washington.

Life moved at a snail's pace. Sam expected everybody to begin their sentences with a friendly 'y'all.' It was a very tip your hat sort of place. There was a weird dusty quality to it, even while it rained constantly. Most of all, it was normal. Sam knew what his brother thought of normal. Normal meant boring in Dean's book.

Dean hated it. It was obvious. The sneer on his face was near permanent. He hated the pretty waitresses, the guy who rented them their rooms, and the people who greeted them in the streets.

Before it happened, Sam got a lot of enjoyment out of his brother's dislike for the place.

Grown tired of wet socks, Sam had bought boots. They were standard black rain boots, but Sam pretended they were cowboy boots. He'd clack his imaginary spurs and Dean would shoot him this look of annoyance. It was childish, but he had nothing better to do.

Dean would check on the car every couple of hours. It had stalled right out of town. They'd had to wait an eternity before the tow truck showed up. At first, it had seemed like a problem that could be easily fixed. Soon, however, it turned out to be something else entirely and the busted part had to be ordered. Sam had suggested renting a car and coming back later for the Impala, but Dean refused to leave it behind. So, they were stuck in town.

Stranded at the motel, Sam bought a few paperbacks at the local bookstore, because his brother had immediately confiscated his laptop. For porn, Sam was sure, but he didn't say anything. Dean wasn't in a mood to be messed with.

Two days into their forced vacation, Sam gave up on reading. He knocked on Dean's door and informed him that he was going for a walk. While Sam was putting on his boots, Dean pointed out that it was raining. The younger Winchester decided to let that one slide.

The roads were lined with abandoned buildings. Factories mostly. Doors and windows were painted shut. It looked like the economic crisis had hit Tacoma hard. The grey clouds and pouring rain only added to the gloomy atmosphere of the city. It was all so depressingly American.

To cheer himself up, Sam jumped in a few puddles. Whatever: no one was looking. He was a little overenthusiastic. The water splashed too high and got into his boots. Sam cursed as the water seeped through his socks. He squished back to the motel and found Castiel in Dean's bed.

His wings appeared and disappeared at random. Three hours later, he was dead.

Sam tried to view the situation from a purely practical side. This was a problem after all. What do you do with a dead angel? Fortunately, the wings had vanished. The body was still there, though. They could just leave, but that seemed harsh. So, Sam called a doctor.

Death was pronounced. They claimed not to know who he was. Well, Dean did and Sam followed suit. The town had a special fund for burials of John Does, which Sam thought was nice. The car got fixed. They decided not to stay for the funeral. Again Dean's decision.

And Sam must have been an idiot, because it took him weeks to realise that his brother was in bad shape. It didn't manifest itself in the usual way. There were no furtive glances, no extra beers, no pursing of the lips. In short, there was no grinning and bearing it.

There was just Dean and a slight tremble. As if he was cold.

Feeling the loss too, stronger than he had anticipated, Sam tried to relate. He told Dean how he felt. Sam primarily felt empty. That wasn't a recent development, but now seemed like the right time to bring it up. He presented it as a healthy reaction. It probably wasn't.

'It's alright to be empty. I can be right here empty with you,' Sam offered. Maybe this is something we can share, he thought. It was a stupid thought.

'You think I feel empty?' Dean asked and laughed. It was the _I wish I did_ laugh. Never had it sounded so bitter. If Sam had been willing to feel anything, he would have felt sorry for his brother.

They muddled on. Other places. Other jobs. One of those took them to Las Vegas. Only one state between them and Tacoma. It crossed Sam's mind, so how could Dean not be thinking it? Neither of them mentioned it. Dean didn't grow paler or thinner; yet, he was less there. It got to the point where Sam thought he would have to sabotage the Impala. Maybe if the car broke down, Dean would break down too.

It was night on The Strip. Bright lights flashed around them. Sam kept his hand around the wallet in his pocket. He wasn't worried about the money. The collection of fake ids and law enforcement badges were another matter. It wasn't anything in particular that triggered it as far as Sam could tell.

'Did you see his wings?' Dean said. Nothing more.

They drove straight to Tacoma the next day. It had been... what? Months, at least. Almost a year. Time flew when you weren't having fun.

The grave wasn't marked. It was a large plot in the corner. Apparently, a lot of strangers without families died in Tacoma. Suddenly, Sam felt guilty. They should have gone to the funeral. It wouldn't have been much of a service, but they should have been there.

Dean kneeled. He quivered and finally Sam recognised his brother's feeling. It was rage. Dean had been angry all this time. His knees covered with dirt, Dean got up. Tears glittered in his eyes. He looked around the cemetery as it started to rain.

'I like it here. It's honest.'

Sam had to agree. There was no hollow promise that life would reward you. Not in South Tacoma.

The end.

(***)

Inspired by the song _South Tacoma Way_ by Neko Case.


	8. Fix you

_Canon. Finally earning that M status._

**Fix you**

'It's warm.'

Each time Castiel delivered the news, he succeeded in making it sound like just that: _news_. As if it was some vital piece of information that Dean didn't have in his possession and that Castiel was happy to share. It was driving Dean crazy.

'Stop telling me that. I know. We're in a goddamn boiler room,' he snapped, immediately wincing at his words and glancing at Castiel. The angel didn't seem bothered by his language. Dean should really quit it with the blasphemy, but he kept forgetting that God now apparently existed and had kind of saved him. As of yet, Castiel appeared to be low on any feelings whatsoever. If they ever surfaced, however, they might be upset by Dean constantly using the Lord's name in vain. So, no more 'damn' or 'God' or 'hell.' That was about it, right?

'Why is it that I am not allowed to make observations, but you are?' Castiel inquired. Sighing, Dean tried the door again. This was approximately the thousandth time he'd yanked on the handle and the door remained locked. Thanks to boy wonder over there.

'Because I told you to watch the door,' Dean huffed.

'I did watch it,' Castiel objected. And Dean had to give it to him, because that was true. That was exactly what Castiel had done. He had watched the door fall shut behind them. And apparently some angel mojo couldn't open it.

'Yeah, that's not... whatever. Just, shut up.'

Mr. Clueless didn't know what he had done wrong and Dean didn't have the patience to explain. Or the mood. Or the inclination. Or the time. Okay, maybe he did have the time, but certainly not the will power that the task required. Roughly, he raked his broken fingernails over his cheek and into the neck of his shirt. Sweat was causing his skin to prickle all over.

'I said I was sorry,' Castiel said. This was also not a new thing. What was new, though, was that he sounded almost offended. His face was a hard blank when Dean studied it. Annoyed, he paced the few steps the small space had to spare.

'If I hear the word 'sorry' one more time, I'm gonna kill you,' he muttered, darkly. He turned around to find Castiel, ever the literal one, attempting to dispute the claim.

'I hardly think...'

Enraged, Dean pointed at him. There was enough restrained fury in his trembling finger to silence Castiel. That was excellent, because Dean honestly didn't know what he would have done if Castiel hadn't listened. He felt really, really irritated.

It was so like Castiel to misunderstand his instructions. Really, it was just as much Dean's fault that they were stuck here, because he should have expected it. Castiel never got anything. Nothing was simple with him around. Wiping drops of sweat out of his eyes, Dean swallowed a curse.

Where was Sam when you needed him? Answer: in the local library, digging up research. It was hard to resent him for doing what Dean should have been doing, but Dean managed. He whipped out his phone and left another message for his stupid brother. It had been hours and he could feel his sanity slowly slip away. Anyone forced to spend an extended period of time with Castiel would feel the same. The angel had a suspicious knack for getting on people's nerves. Like right now.

'I'm sorry for doing this, but...' Castiel hesitantly began, only to be cut off by a groan of intense frustration. Dean curbed the urge to kill, kill, kill with difficulty. He angrily rubbed his temples.

'Why are you still talking?'

'I'm trying to tell you why we're here.'

Dean was in Castiel's face the second the meaning of that statement sunk in. Because this wasn't one of the numerous occasions of Castiel spelling out the obvious. This was Castiel being a pain in the ass, _on purpose._

'You did this?' Dean snarled. He couldn't believe it. Sure, Castiel was definitely, without a doubt the most aggravating individual Dean had ever had the displeasure of meeting, but he also wasn't in the habit of randomly locking them up. There had to be a reason.

'You never listen to me,' Castiel whispered. Again, there was a hint of an emotion in his voice. Dean raised his fist; only to make the mistake of looking at Castiel. Growling, Dean settled for punching the wall instead.

'This better be good,' he warned. Disgusted, he stared at his knuckles. They were covered with gunk. The walls were coated in the same black, thick soot. Cobwebs hung from the low ceiling and clung to their faces. The state of the floor defied description. Waiting for an answer, Dean unzipped his jacket.

'You never said just, 'hurt me.' You were very specific. 'Cut me, skin me, carve me up and watch the blood spray,' you said,' Castiel explained. Articulation perfect; voice loud and clear. Dean tossed his jacket down, momentarily forgetting about little details like the indescribable filth, because...

'That is what you trapped us in here for? To have a little chat about my time in hell? Are you kidding me?' Dean yelled, pausing only to scratch along the length of both his arms simultaneously. 'Why is everyone so obsessed with getting me to talk about that?'

'We care about you,' Castiel deadpanned. For that lovely sentiment he received a death glare from the hunter.

'That's great,' Dean mumbled, disgruntled, while he grimly noted that the itch was actually getting worse. It was everywhere. Since he happened to not give a damn about what Castiel thought about anything at the moment, he shoved his hands under his shirt. It felt pretty great to scratch until the crawling sensation turned into pain. Sighing with satisfaction, he dropped his hands to his side to discover that Castiel wasn't done.

'There were always tools involved; you didn't want him to use his bare hands. Why?'

It had to be the most ridiculous, nonsensical question ever. Dean had a better one. Who the hell cared? He had been there and he didn't even care. Yeah, that's right: the guy who had been tortured for years on end and who had screamed himself hoarse didn't give a shit.

When Castiel touched him, Dean reacted on instinct. He slammed the angel into the wall and pressed his forearm to Castiel's throat.

'What the fuck are you doing?' Dean breathed. As if Dean's arm wasn't there to hold him back, Castiel leaned forward and brushed his mouth against Dean's tightly closed lips. Then Castiel pulled back and smiled, like an idiot, before kissing him again. Softly, he eased Dean's lips apart. Slowly, he licked his way inside. Dean couldn't help it; he chuckled. Castiel paused and tilted his head.

'You're choosing to do this _now_?' Dean asked. Castiel's answer was another kiss. It was a bit more demanding and less innocent than before. Dean, feeling reckless, kind of leaned into it.

It felt less weird than Dean had imagined, probably because he had been thinking about this for a while. Had been wanting it too. Castiel's hands snaked under his clothes. The angel seemed to know what he was doing and Dean didn't question it. He didn't get the time.

Castiel stripped him off his clothes and then calmly took off his own. In the end, they were both naked and Castiel was like porn. If porn featured extremely attractive, slightly too skinny men. He was all angles and hollows and dips. There was more of him that wasn't there than what was there, if that made sense. It probably didn't. Very little did. The things Castiel was saying were porn at its dirtiest, yet the angel was undoubtedly the purest thing in the basement.

'You're so pretty.'

Okay, that wasn't very porny, but bear in mind that Castiel was saying this while he slipped a finger into Dean. There was a glow to Castiel's face that almost made the hunter forget that in his fantasies about this moment it wasn't Dean who was expertly being opened up. Dean was usually doing the taking instead of being taken.

'So tight and so very hot,' Castiel murmured, adding another finger. Dean was too wrapped up in his desire to protest. He just wanted more. More of Castiel inside him.

'Oh God. Fuck me already.'

With his back to the grimy wall, Dean was lifted up and entered. From there on out, he was lost. He begged for it. Every time Castiel rolled his hips, Dean moaned with an abandon that he would normally have been ashamed of. Castiel made the sweetest sound when Dean trailed his tongue across his shoulder, so Dean was forced to repeat the movement until their legs buckled. He ignored how slimy the floor felt underneath his knees as they crawled across it.

The scuzziest basement on earth had nothing on the dirty things they did to each other while rolling through the dust. The heat of the room couldn't even begin to compare to how bright they blazed. It was a relief when they came, though Dean kept Castiel pinned to the floor, unwilling to go without the feeling of having the angel's cock buried deep inside of him. Castiel's body was slick with sweat and ash as was Dean's. They dressed silently. Dean tried to process what had happened.

It felt... It felt as if Castiel had giving him everything that he hadn't been able to get from any of the women he'd slept with since hell. Dean had gotten himself back.

They looked at each other. Castiel had reverted back into his proper self. Tie, trench coat, blank expression, tilt of the head: nothing seemed different. Dean wondered how - after all that thrusting and sucking – Castiel could appear so composed.

'All I hear is your heart. How come?' Castiel asked, looking insecure and sincere and, most unsettling of all, _human_. The door opened. It was Sam. Dean had never been more grateful to see Sam than at that moment, because, how do you explain love to an angel?

'Sorry for taking so long,' Sam said. Dean's gratitude was instantly gone and he shot his brother an annoyed look. It was getting a little too crowded in there, so Dean shouldered his way past Sam into the relatively fresh air of the hallway. Castiel followed. Side by side, they waited for Sam to come out. Dean's fingers fumbled and found Castiel's hand. He squeezed and let go again. When he chanced a glance at Castiel, he encountered eyes that burned cool. Maybe Dean didn't need to break it down. Maybe, for once, Castiel got it.

'Boy, it's warm in there,' Sam informed them, coming out of the boiler room. Dean rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Castiel spoke.

'A word of advice, Sam: shut up.'

The end.


	9. Somebody loved

**Somebody loved**

'I have been pondering you.'

The angel said it very seriously, pretty much like he said everything. Dean winced. What now? It couldn't be good, because, well, that was just the way things worked. Life sucked. People died. Relationships were destroyed.

'I don't know what that means. Is that good or bad?' Dean asked with dread in his voice. Castiel didn't answer. He looked at Dean. There was not a trace of the usual laser-like focus in his gaze. It was almost dreamy.

'The way you say my name. The way I say your name,' Castiel murmured. He stopped, seemingly momentarily forgetting that Dean was there. He had a faraway look in his eyes. Slowly, he pronounced the hunter's name.

'Dean.'

Dean swallowed, because there _was_ something special about the way Castiel said it. Trying it out, moving his lips into the correct shape as if saying it for the first time. As if the name would break if he wasn't careful. Through his impossibly long eye lashes, Castiel glanced suddenly at Dean.

Blink, idiot! And pretend you didn't notice anything about his lashes, Dean told himself. Say something. Say something quick! Unperturbed by Dean's mounting confusion, Castiel gazed steadily at him.

'Why do I belong to you?' the angel asked, apparently not expecting an answer, because he immediately followed up that doozy of a question with a firm, 'Because I do.'

Castiel nodded. That nod was very familiar to Dean. It came after facts. So, apparently Castiel now belonged to Dean. In a 'I'll do anything for you' kind of way, which wasn't new, but which had up until then remained blissfully unspoken. Say something, Dean urged himself. Anything.

'Cas?' he mumbled. Castiel visibly started to breathe easier upon hearing his name. Too late Dean realized that he had unwittingly confirmed something. Damn it, he thought. Damn it all to hell.

'Yes, like that. Exactly like that,' Castiel said. He was nodding again. Nodding, and approaching Dean. Whereas Castiel was very much at ease, Dean was growing more and more tense and uncomfortable. The angel halted and cocked his head. Dean's heart was racing and it refused to slow down, even when Castiel stepped back.

'These things shouldn't be rushed. I know that. I want to do it right. For the longest time, I waited. But I'm done waiting, Dean.'

The angel paused.

'Dean. Dean. Dean,' Castiel said. He listened to himself repeating the name over and over as if he was conducting some insane experiment and seemed to like what he heard. Then he smiled. If Dean had been the type of person to use the description 'adorable' non-sarcastically, that smile would have qualified.

'Can you hear it?' Castiel asked. This time an answer appeared to be required of Dean, because the angel stared at him expectantly. And yeah, sure, there was something in there. Something special. But Dean wasn't about to try and guess what it was. Better let it stay vague.

'Sounds like the way you have always said it,' Dean casually remarked. His companion was still beaming. It was like looking into the fucking fog lights of a car. Dean wanted to shut his eyes or squint or something, because it was too much.

'Does it? Dean. To me it sounds as if I could live a million lifetimes with you. Dean. I think about you all the time. Dean. I love the thought of you. I can hear that in there, can't you? Dean. Love. Dean, Dean, Dean. Love, love, love.'

It was such a heartfelt speech. Sam's earnestness times a thousand. Dean had absolutely no idea how to handle it. He found that he was gritting his teeth. With considerable effort, he managed to relax his jaw. Castiel was cocking his head all over the place, attempting to gauge the hunter's reaction.

Love. The word was echoing through Dean's mind like so many alarm bells going off. How was it that Castiel could pour this out over him as if it was a gift, when really it was a burden?

Dean didn't even feel like he could give it back. That's probably what he should say. I can't love, he thought. Or I can't love you. But both were stupid and wrong and a lie. Startled, Dean looked up. Castiel's intensity had returned with a vengeance. There was a newfound peace in his blue eyes as he stared at Dean.

He isn't waiting for me to reciprocate, Dean realized; he just wants me to listen and take it all in. It would be hard to believe, except for the fact that this was Castiel. So, no expectations. No nothing. Only 'hey, I totally think you're my soul mate' and that was it.

'I've learned the meaning of what formerly were mere words. Regret. I regret some things I've done. When I ponder you, though, I regret the things that I haven't done. Well, no more. I love you. I love you, Dean. I love you.'

If Dean hadn't hugged Castiel right then and there, he suspected the angel would never have stopped saying it. At first, there was nothing weird about the embrace. Just one guy holding another guy. Castiel was like a block of granite. Unmoving. Cold. Dean was beginning to peel himself away when the shape in his arms changed. Feathers tickled Dean's nose. With Castiel's wings folded safely around him, Dean felt… loved.

The wings crackled with electricity when they broke apart. Dean's hair was standing on end. And just like that, Castiel vanished.

The end.


	10. Strange and beautiful

_AU_

**Strange and beautiful**

'Cas, check this out!'

Castiel hurried into the living room. What he found was his boyfriend, splayed out on their ratty couch, pointing at the small screen with a hot wing. There was to be no television, no eating before dinner, and no eating on the couch _ever_. Dean was – naturally – breaking all these rules. Annoyed, Castiel swallowed some recriminations and glanced at Damian Lewis.

'What's this? Homeland? Oh, Life reruns. Dean, haven't you seen this approximately 23 times already?'

'Shhh. Look, look. Here it comes,' Dean whispered. He leaned forward, taking in every beat of the conversation between Damian Lewis and that guy from Raising Hope. Right up until the moment when Damian Lewis pulled some kind of extremely unlikely kungfu move and seemed to crush the windpipe of the other man. Meanwhile, Castiel tried hard to ignore the strip of chicken meat that was about to touch the ugly quilt covering the couch and tried to focus on Dean's big grin.

'Awesome, huh? It's like some sort of Kill Bill shit,' Dean marveled. They both watched the two leads reunite. Castiel vaguely remembered this. Dean vividly remembered this. Unorthodox pairings were his own personal catnip. He gestured at the premature ending of one of his favorite TV series where Charlie and Dani walked towards each other.

'They're a lot like us. He's weird and she's pretty.'

Castiel blinked. Then he frowned, visibly attempting to work out who he was supposed to be. Dean decided to give him a chance to figure it out himself, as he looked around their apartment. It was tiny. The wallpaper was faded, the carpet was threadbare and, worst of all, the TV was crappy. At the moment it was damn cold, because the heating had broken down; again.

Yet, following the confusion on Cas's face, Dean didn't mind any of it. He simply didn't care. Finally taking pity on Castiel, Dean provided the answer to what was really not a riddle.

'Then again, my fondness for weirdoes is well-documented,' he offered, pulling Castiel onto the couch. Castiel gasped. It was horror at seeing the greasy chicken meat come into full contact with the upholstery, but Dean obviously interpreted it as a sign of pleasure. Kindly, Castiel didn't correct him.

Their bodies arched against each other. Front to front at first. Soon, Castiel was whispering instructions and Dean's back was flush against his chest. It was their preferred position, because Dean always wanted everything fast and now, now, now. This way Castiel could take his time, slip his hands underneath Dean's cable knit sweater (courtesy of Sam, who was miraculously not gay, despite having brazenly joined a knitting group) and trace invisible patterns on the skin.

He connected freckles like dots. He made clouds with his fingertips. He didn't tell Dean about the shapes he was drawing, because he didn't want to get into another argument. According to Dean, clouds weren't shapes.

_You ever see a cloud in the shape of a cloud? _

_All clouds are shaped like clouds, Dean._

He kissed Dean's ear. Nibbled on it. Dean attempted to speak, but the quilt muffled his words. Castiel pulled away slightly to give him some space.

'Wanna take this into the bedroom?' Dean repeated. Castiel smiled and raced into the bedroom, nearly colliding with the dresser.

It was later, much later, when Castiel gasped again. This time it was definitely a sign of pleasure. Gently, Castiel kissed Dean's jaw, until Dean tilted his head and their lips met. Once the kiss was over, Dean tried to roll away, but Castiel held him. Uh oh, Dean thought. Apparently, it was time for Cas to say something profound and poetic and for Dean to feel uncomfortable.

I love you was one thing. Dean had gotten used to I love you. It was almost pedestrian. Well, not pedestrian, but common in a wonderful way, because Cas said it all the time. Some of Castiel's more inventive prose on the other hand was still embarrassing. Hey, after 25 years of burying every emotion except anger under a big rock in the desert, it took Dean a while to get accustomed to 'my love for you is like a circle: it has no beginning or end.' Dean was pretty sure by the way that _that_ particular gem was on a tile in some poor sap's toilet. Or on a valentine's card or something. Dean was also pretty sure that every single one of Castiel's declarations of love came straight from the heart.

So, Dean pressed himself tighter against Castiel and prepared to do some cringing.

'You…' Castiel breathed sensually, 'You taste like chicken.'

The end.


	11. Fat

_Missing scenes from 4.01 Lazarus Rising_

**Fat**

Despite Sam's attempts to ruin the Impala with his douchey accessories, Dean noted satisfied that his baby drove as smoothly as ever. He patted the steering wheel and confirmed that Bobby's car was ahead of them. Then he glanced at Sam.

Sam was looking at him. No; _eyeing _him in a really disturbing manner. Like, looking him up and down in way a guy should never look at his own brother. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Dean focused on the road for a while. When he glanced to the right again, Sam was still doing it.

'What?' Dean nervously asked. Sam narrowed his eyes to slits and nodded.

'You got fat.'

What? would have been Dean's first response, but he realized that he'd said that already. Also, it would have sounded confused and Dean was done with feeling confused for the time being. Sam smiled. It was a little smug smile and he didn't even try to hide it. Anger flashed through Dean; quick and hot.

'Oh, that's nice. I'm fresh out of hell and that's all you've got to say?'

'I'm sorry,' Sam said, but his smile didn't waver. 'I mean, I'm only just noticing it now, but I guess an entire year of eating bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast wasn't such a good idea after all. You're fat.'

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. His brother's smile widened.

'I'm not,' Dean eventually protested. He wasn't, was he? He'd checked himself in the mirror, but he'd been distracted by the giant handprint seared into his shoulder.

'Yeah, you kinda are,' Sam insisted, leaning back in his seat. Dean glared at him. Mostly because he didn't have a comeback.

Covertly, Dean snuck a glance at his midriff. Sam snickered. Dean's gaze shot up. He didn't like this Sam one bit. Of the two of them, Sam was supposed to be the sensitive one, not this… jerk. Yeah, he was a jerk. Over the next few minutes, every time Dean inconspicuously tried to verify whether or not his brother was telling the truth, Jerky McJerkerton reacted with the same, uncharacteristic mirth.

(***)

Okay, so God and angels existed and they had work to do for him, which was… hilarious. In a surreal way. It also meant that he was completely screwed. And fat, apparently. He was a nonbeliever saved by an angel to do God's work and he was fat. Dean chuckled.

'Your brother is wrong,' Castiel said.

'Huh?'

Castiel wasn't looking at him. This was quite a feat, since they were standing all of two inches apart. Dean took the opportunity to study the angel up close without being observed himself. The reprieve didn't last long.

'You're not overweight. You are perfect.'

The angel's tone was a mixture of serious and casual. They stared at each other. Castiel was solemn. Dean was embarrassed. I'm making this whole thing up, he thought. There was simply no other explanation. Why else would Castiel be undressing him with his eyes?

Dean was insane. Had to be. 'Cause a frigging angel of the Lord was sure as hell _not_ making bedroom eyes at him. Even though he was brand new at interacting with angels, Dean somehow didn't think that they were in the habit of hitting on humans.

Jesus, that stare! Dean didn't think he could take much more of it. To break the tension, he considered offering an offhand 'thanks.' That probably wasn't the right thing to say. He wasn't capable of averting his eyes either, because, let's face it, angel or not: dude was pretty. So, in the end, he winked.

The end.


	12. The one where Castiel kills Sam

_AU. 5.04 The End. With a twist._

**The one where Castiel kills Sam (and Dean is a dick about it)**

This is a waste of paper, surely.

'Surely. Shurley. He he. That's funny,' Chuck mumbles. It's been a long time since he has written anything. Mostly because his visions are few and far between nowadays. Also, even now he can't seem to shake the idea that paper is valuable. But here he is. Writing.

_2014_

_Camp Chitaqua_

'_Why don't we break the rules already?'_

_It was Dean who said it, but they'd both been thinking it. Castiel almost didn't know what the rules were anymore and didn't care. So, break them they did. _

_That night it started with a kiss. A quick one. Dean got up from the bed and twisted the collar of Castiel's shirt in his fists. His hands were surprisingly steady. Knuckles grazed Castiel's throat and the former angel's mouth brushed against Dean's. It tasted like beer and salt and pain. They heard Chuck flush the toilet and broke apart._

Pausing, Chuck flexes his writing muscles. It is a nice, but flawed beginning. For starters, he doesn't like the way he has inserted himself into the narrative. Yeah, he had been there, but still. It feels weird to be writing slash too. Not that he gets to be picky. If reality serves up slash, Chuck is more than happy to write it. At least it isn't Sam/Dean. Thank God for small mercies.

Most of all, though, what is wrong about it is that it isn't the beginning at all. He should open with what should have been the ending. Sighing, Chuck starts over.

_2010_

_Stull Cemetery, Kansas._

_Lucifer and Michael, wearing Sam and Adam, were bickering as brothers are wont to do. There was no Impala approaching the field, because..._

'Dammit.'

That isn't the beginning either.

_2010_

_Detroit_

'_I'm not gonna let you do it!'_

'_I thought we decided that I was my own man. 'Overgrown' was the word you used, if I recall correctly,' Sam reminded him. Dean didn't answer. How was he going to explain that he was more afraid of losing Sam than of losing? He couldn't, so he didn't say anything. He handed Sam the horsemen's rings. He didn't go into the house. He didn't do anything. And so it came to be..._

'And so it came to be. That's, like, beyond hacky. That's trying to be word-of-God, which technically it is, and overreaching by about a mile. Nonetheless.'

_2010_

_Stull Cemetery, Kansas._

_And so it came to be that when Lucifer met Michael on a field in Kansas, it was just the two of them. Devil and arch angel. Alone. Dean, having decided that if Sam wanted to throw away his life he would have to do it himself, wasn't there. He didn't phone the prophet to get the location. Bobby and Castiel never got Dean's phone call. No pieces of LEGO rattling in the vents. No toy soldier crammed into the ashtray. Nothing to bring Sam to the surface._

_Lucifer bested Michael. Turns out the devil was indeed in the details. Or rather, the chance to defeat the devil was in the details. _

He is mixing clichés now and doing a shitty job of it. Never mind. Flash forward.

_2014_

_Camp Chitaqua_

_Castiel watched Dean slide his tongue over his lips. Fuck the rule that said that they couldn't kiss, Castiel thought, because all he wanted was to do that again and again and again._

'_I'll cancel the afternoon orgy. Keeping the male and female orgy groups apart was becoming more of a scheduling nightmare than a pleasure anyway.' _

_A flicker of a smile crossed Dean's face. It was there and then it was gone, because this was a different Dean. Hardened. Unforgiving. Broken. The hunter's gaze was fierce. Whenever Dean looked at him like that, it felt like a jolt. Some nights more like an angry shove, some nights more like a weary yank. Castiel didn't know how to respond; didn't know whether Dean wanted to take it further. _

That is so like Castiel, Chuck thinks. Dean isn't subtle. Never was. He doesn't know how.

_2014_

_Camp Chitaqua_

_One night when they were almost cuddling, but not quite, Castiel mentioned the possibility of the army man. _

'_The one that Sam...?'_

'_That one.'_

'_But we don't have the rings. I gave them to him,' Dean protested._

'_Lucifer kept them.'_

_Dean propped himself up on his elbows. _

'_How do you know? How do you know any of this?'_

'_Chuck told me.'_

_Castiel didn't mention the rest. How it should have ended. How, if Dean had been there like he was supposed to, it would have ended. He put his lips to the small of Dean's back and left them there. It was strange how kissing Dean made everything better. It didn't only stop Castiel from wondering who he was: when he kissed Dean, Castiel _knew_ who he was. He was the one who loved Dean._

'_Do you want to try?' Castiel breathed against Dean's skin. The hunter rolled away. His face was tight. _

'_Yeah. Let's finish what Sam started.'_

Chuck looks across the desk at Becky. She is talking. Rambling about his writing and how wonderful he had been at the convention. It is their first date.

_2014_

_Camp Chitaqua_

_They told the others about their plan. Riva and Chuck and a dozen other faces. Castiel didn't know the names of half of them. He felt bad about that, until he realised that Dean probably didn't either. _

_It was a suicide mission. Five years was a long time. Sam might not be in there anymore. Chuck had told him that even in 2010 Sam would barely have emerged. _

'_Will it enable you to kill Lucifer?' Riva asked. _

'_I think so, yeah,' Dean answered. He avoided her eyes. No faith, Castiel thought. No faith in himself. No faith in anything, really. Because: hardened. Because: unforgiving. Because: broken._

'_Then we're going in.'_

Chuck begins to cry. Tears. Snot. The works. That is all in the past. Being brave and stupid and dying for what you believe in.

_2014_

_Camp Chitaqua_

_The Impala looked awful, but Dean slid into the backseat without comment. His hand hovered above the ashtray. Castiel waited by the open door, leaning forward. Dust stirred and collected in their lungs. Dean didn't turn towards Castiel when he spoke._

'_You don't have to come,' he offered softly, trying to get his finger underneath the toy soldier. _

'_I know,' Castiel said. Dean's nail caught behind the tiny rifle. He wiggled and swore until the toy was loose. They stared at it. It was scuffed. Then Dean pulled Castiel into the car. Rough hands and warm lips enveloped Castiel. Or rather, they defined him. For a few precious moments there was just this feeling for Dean. And that was alright._

Chuck wipes away the evidence of his emotions. Now for the hard one. The ending, in a way. Better late than never.

_2014_

'_Martyr,' Lucifer drawled upon hitting Dean. Castiel flinched when he saw the wounded look in the Dean's eyes. Blood was running down the hunter's face, but that wasn't what had hurt him. The devil was a pale imitation of Sam, but he had Dean fooled. Scorn from the mouth of his brother._

_One of Dean's hands was in his pocket. The plastic toy was in there; fingers curled around it. He intended to keep it there, Castiel realised. He rushed to the hunter's side._

'_No,' Dean whispered, attempting to shove him back. Castiel fished the army man out of its hiding place and held it up for Lucifer to see. Lucifer looked bored, but then again that's how he usually looked. Unimpressed and faintly amused by these things called feelings. He hummed, as if to say 'well, this is new.' Maybe he even thought it was an interesting development. He took the toy from Castiel and crushed it in his hand. Holding the pieces, he was suddenly Sam._

_After that it was quick. Lucifer – no doubt thinking himself invincible - had indeed kept the horsemen's rings. Castiel knew the incantation. Sam looked almost grateful as he fell. The next morning, Dean was gone._

Chuck knows that he didn't invent Dean Winchester and is kind of glad he didn't. Most days Dean would make a hell of a character, but sometimes he could be an idiot. This was one of those times.

_2021_

_Detroit_

_Merry Christmas. _

_That's what the text said: Merry Christmas. Spelled out in full, with capitals and a period at the end, like every year. As if that cheery holiday greeting meant anything to either of them._

_Still, Dean didn't put away his phone. He must have held onto it for a reason after all. It didn't work when he left, but three years later the networks had been restored, reinstalled or whatever and he'd gotten his first text from Castiel. Dean never responded._

_Merry Christmas. I'm in Taos. Army moved out of Florida. Happy New Year. I'm in Red Bank. Did you hear that Australia is free of the Croatoan virus? Happy Birthday. I'm in Gig Harbor. Houston rebuilt. _

_A text for every ridiculous holiday and always at the end, where are you? Three words with three other words crouching just beneath them. Without allowing himself time to think, Dean composed a response. Send._

_merry xmas 2 u 2_

_It took a few minutes but then his phone beeped._

_You're a dick._

_Well, I deserve that, Dean thought. Another text followed quickly._

_I'd like it very much if you were a dick who communicated with me instead of a dick who doesn't._

_Dean smiled. His phone beeped again._

_The second one is a much bigger dick._

_Beep._

_And not in a good way._

'_Dirty,' Dean mumbled._

_Beep._

_Where are you?_

_For the second time that day Dean made a decision._

This is so damn depressing, Chuck thinks. But it gets better. Time for a new chapter in the Winchester Gospel that will never be read.

_2021 _

_Detroit_

'_Dean?'_

'_5228 Jefferson Avenue, Detroit. But, Castiel, the weather report...'_

_Castiel ended the call. Dean poured himself a drink and settled in to wait. After a couple of hours, it started to snow. He ventured outside. The snow was as solid as snow could be. White heaps were already leaning against the door and the windows. Dean thought about going out for supplies because it looked as if he might get snowed in, but he didn't dare risk missing Castiel. _

_Dean slowly developed a rhythm. Scotch. Coffee. Scotch. Coffee. He made a fire in the fireplace. He tried to watch TV. He tried to read an old newspaper. He fell asleep in the middle of an article about how the containment of the Croatoan virus had affected Christmas sales._

Chuck yawns and continues.

_2021_

_Detroit_

_Jerking awake, Dean almost slipped out of his chair. It was late and dark. Someone was knocking on the door. Then he remembered. He hurried to the door and threw it open. His bare feet were instantly covered with snow. The shock of the cold was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Castiel, though._

_A big, green parka occupied his doorstep. Dean suddenly noticed that he'd forgotten to take off his reading glasses. Flustered, he folded them and tucked them into his breast pocket. _

_Two familiar eyes peeked out from between the hood of the parka and the woollen scarf that encircled Castiel's throat. Shivering, he took down the hood. There were streaks of grey in his hair. They suited him. _

'_The c-c-c-car broke down,' Castiel said by way of an explanation. Dean came to his senses and allowed Castiel to step inside. Not bothering about cleaning up the snow, Dean closed the door behind them._

'_Why didn't you call?' Dean asked. The question was met with a sharp look and a stony silence from Castiel. 'Cause he thought I might bolt again like I did all those years ago, Dean realised. They stood in the cramped hallway, their breaths forming little clouds, until Castiel coughed and Dean snapped out of another proximity-to-Castiel induced trance._

'_The bathroom's upstairs. First door on the left. If you wanna take a shower.'_

_Castiel nodded. While Castiel was in the shower, Dean assembled some clean clothes. Underwear, thick grey socks, an old pair of grey sweatpants and a light blue pullover. He left them by the door of the bathroom._

_Downstairs, Dean threw some more logs on the fire and got another glass from the kitchen. He poured scotch for the both of them in the living room. Footsteps on the stairs announced Castiel's imminent arrival. The clothes hung loose on the other man's slim frame. Castiel's hands looked red and raw. Dean tried to take them into his own, but Castiel ignored the gesture and sat down. _

_Dean sighed and took the chair opposite him. The newspaper was in the way, so he pushed it aside. When Dean slid the glass across the table, Castiel made no attempt to accept it._

'_Have a drink. It'll warm you up,' Dean insisted. Castiel didn't so much as glance at it._

'_Do you by any chance have any hot chocolate milk?'_

'_I'll check.'_

_In the tiny kitchen, Dean looked for chocolate milk he knew he didn't have. _

'_How about coffee?' he called out. Castiel didn't answer immediately. He was observing the living room with interest, though there was little to see. Dean put the mug down in front of Castiel and sat down again._

'_Coffee's fine. Thank you.'_

Chuck doesn't think he can do the silence that followed justice. It is a silence that builds until there is nothing else left except what isn't being said. Like a crescendo of crickets. Like the scene from the first Lord of the Rings movie in the Mines of Moria. Drums in the deep. Waiting. Waiting.

_2021_

_Detroit_

_Dean tucked his feet under the table and rubbed his toes together. He fidgeted with the corner of the newspaper, coming close to tearing it off. _

'_It was Sam,' he finally said, unable to withstand the strangling silence._

'_I know.'_

'_It was Sam and you killed him. Not technically, but the thought that he's down there with Lucifer...'_

'_I know.'_

'_I couldn't stay.'_

'_I know.'_

'_Cas? I missed you.'_

_Dean thought that he had been angry. Angry at Castiel. Angry at himself. Angry at Sam. Angry at the world. The sort of seething resentment that took up the entire day to maintain, to feed. The sort of anger that consumed your life. _

_But he hadn't been, not really. In Camp Chitaqua he had seen in Castiel's eyes exactly what he was. Broken. How could Dean inflict that – _himself _- on anyone else? Yet, Castiel had wanted him. Had maybe always wanted him__._

_Dean walked up to Castiel and kissed him. It tasted like real, cold anger. Castiel's anger. _

'_Cas, I'm sorry.'_

_Dean reached out, but Castiel slapped his hand away. Determined, Dean stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the other man. Castiel cursed fluently and convincingly while he struggled. It was unsettling, but Dean managed to hold him. He gripped Castiel's face firmly between his hands and kissed him again. Castiel bit his lip, but Dean kept kissing him. He was rewarded with a shove that landed him with his back against the edge of the table._

'_Cas, I love you.'_

_Castiel pushed him down on the rough wood. Their kisses were hungry, breathless. They made love right there on the table, Castiel easing gently into Dean. And then under the table. And then on the rug in front of the fireplace. And then in the bedroom. And then in the shower. And then in the Impala – after it had been dug out of a snow bank and repaired. And then, they lived happily ever after. Even after they died._

_The end._

Chuck puts down his pen and looks at Becky. She asks him whether he wants something to drink. Chuck doesn't answer, but Becky reacts as if he does. Who would have guessed that heaven meant being stuck in the middle of happy memories that rotate without variation? Apparently, the shuffle function is too much to ask for. He sips his beer.

Sharing heaven with your soul mate: must be nice.

The end.__


End file.
